Die Another Day
by Band8PGeek
Summary: Fun and games make for a good party. Beer and drugs make for a confusing party. Your guests being systematically murdered by a force of good gone wrong make for a bad party. Guess which kind he had. Rated for language and character death. COMPLETE.
1. Wake Up, Yes And No

_**Die Another Day  
**__I'm gonna break the cycle. I'm gonna shake up the system. I'm gonna destroy my ego. I'm gonna close my body now. _

My writing muse has been murderous all freaking month, so I figured I'd finally knuckle down and write something productive. Unfortunately, this prologue is crap because it hasn't gotten to the best part yet. But stick around, and it'll get better, I promise.

Disclaimer: I don't own SpongeBob or the titular Die Another Day. I don't even own the concept of all the death that will follow in the next chapters; some of the credit deserves to go to a Bond fanatic.

* * *

In all honesty, SpongeBob shouldn't have been having this house party at all. And if he had to, he couldn't have picked a worse day to do so if he'd spent his childhood planning it.

It wasn't that it was October or Friday the 13th or anything superstitious like that. No, a regular Wednesday in June, when the sun was in just the right place in the morning. And it was meant to be a regular party, like the one he'd thrown last month, the one that'd gotten him in jail with a bunny outfit (d…don't ask).  
It was just that the murderer had struck again the previous night.

Yeah, the murderer. This mysterious assassin had been taking down random citizens for a few days now. First Tom and Fred were reported as having been suffocated in bed. Then some other citizens got involved in a mysterious serial drowning at the Goo Lagoon. And now, as it turned out, Scooter had been found impaled on the Krusty Krab.  
It was all very strange, if you pardon the understatement.

Needless to say, everyone was very edgy all that day. If the murderer was now killing people that would actually be missed, how long would it be until someone _really_ significant went down? Some even went as far to tell SpongeBob to stop the party.

Naturally, SpongeBob could never stop the party. That would be hell on his OCD.  
But he did downsize it a little. Only the people he completely and totally knew and trusted would be going…and from those 100-odd people, only those who were brave enough. The final guest list ended up being Patrick, Squidward, Sandy, Mr Krabs and his daughter Pearl (who, to be honest, couldn't stay away from a party no matter what the circumstances).

Of course, 7 people (if you counted the host and his snail) wasn't much of a party, even with Twister cranked out. But SpongeBob was gonna make it work.  
After all, it was his party.

It was his party, he could die if he wanted to.

* * *

All guests had entered the safety of the house. The party was not yet kicking, but that wasn't of priority right now.  
The important thing was that everyone was away from the dangers of murder.

SpongeBob was finishing up the bolting and taping down of the doors. Regular locks weren't going to cut it this time. Not if they were to stay alive.  
"Well," he finally sighed, "that's the doors all finished. Now for the windows."

"Does that mean we can party now?" whined Pearl. "I just spent 50 minutes getting here and I don't want to waste any more on your barnacling about."  
"**Pearl!** Don't be so rude to the lad," her father reprimanded her. "He's trying to protect our lives here."  
"Quit patronizing me, Daddy."

"No, Pearl, Mr Krabs is right," the sponge butted in, closing all curtains. "Life is a precious thing; if anybody is going to die tonight it's not going to be us."

"So if life is so precious," protested Pearl, "why are we wasting it asphyxiating ourselves through someone's oversecurity? We can all take care of ourselves, right?"  
"Woooow." A gormless Patrick stared at her in wonder. "You used a lot of big words!"  
Mr Krabs rolled his eyes at his stupidity. "'We' and 'ourselves' aren't big words, Patrick."  
"Sure they are," he smiled. "They're more than one, right?"

Thankfully, the boringly-written conversation was interrupted by the announcement from the host that all windows and doors were now secured. This was met with applause all round. Finally, the party could begin with ea—  
"Wait a minute. I'm not sure about this. How do we know that this murderer can't get in down the chimney?"

Squidward's slightly unusual implication earned him a clonk on the head. "Now don't ya start gettin' party pooper on us," Sandy intoned. "Can't ya go one minute without stallin' the whole process?"  
"I'm not stalling," he muttered, rubbing his sore head. "I just don't want to risk someone barging in through the chimney and splattering us up against the wall with machine guns any more than you do."  
Of course, by this time, SpongeBob had blocked the chimney anyway. "All done," he grinned. Now the party could really begin.

But hang on – "What about the snail flap?" Squidward disputed again. "He could get in through the snail flap."  
Heads, meet hands.

* * *

After the snail flap, the tako casually brought up the risk of tunneling through the floor. Then the wall. Then through the fireplace… With each new idea he brought up, Sponge proceeded to cover up the potential entrances, with steel if necessary.  
The amount of involvement Squidward was having in security all of a sudden was slightly suspicious at first. Why was he so concerned about how one could get in? But all Squid had to do was mention how important everyone's lives were and they could relax a bit.  
Albeit, only a bit.

Half an hour after the guests had first entered, every possible entrance to the house, and indeed the living room, was plastered over. It was a wonder anyone could breathe the water (or in Sandy's case, air) that circulated throughout.  
But finally, **finally, **everyone could relax. As Sponge put it to his frazzled guests with delight, "I am now totally confident that no mass murderers can get in."

That was when Squidward pointed the gun at his head.

"Or out."


	2. There's So Much More To Know

Happy freaking Halloween! And (in my mind at least) Happy Birthday Squidward! Now on to all the ebil!Squid crap.

…

Did I just say ebil!Squid? Damn, LiveJournal terminology is getting to me. soulful-sin was right, it _does_ swallow the soul.

* * *

After several minutes of plastering over every last opening and gap-in-the-wall to lock a dangerous murderer **out **of the house, the realization that you've actually just locked the murderer **in **with you is bound to shock anyone.  
Especially if you've also just discovered that the murderer deliberately set it up so that you would unknowingly seal you and your guests in what is now a death trap.

So it's fair to say that everyone was pretty shocked.

Everyone, surprisingly, except SpongeBob.

If anything, he seemed _amused _by it all. _Amused. _Being oblivious was supposed to be Patrick's shtick, and even he understood the seriousness of the situation.  
But Sponge was just laughing, giggling, acting like on Prozac (or was it Bupropin? No one could ever tell the two apart). Bahahaha. Bahahaha. Bahahaha.

"Man, Squidward, that's a good one," he managed to get out when he'd finally finished. "Making me think that you're the murderer…you should take up comedy, you're really good at this."  
Squidward wasn't impressed. "I'm not kidding. Does this gun say that I'm kidding? The same gun that I used to dash out Scooter's brains? Or what little there were of them."

The host just laughed _again_. Bahahaha. Bahahahaha. That last snide dig wasn't even that funny. "Wow," he giggled, "that one was even funnier the second time!"  
"It's not going to be funny when I splatter all of you against the wall with a parade of bullets." Squidward hoped that he'd twig soon – holding up the gun for all this time was starting to hurt.

Bahaha. Baha. Ha. The laughter got a little weaker, the smile smaller. "You might have to work on the one-joke repertoire there, Squidward. Spread out a little, get more material, stop rippin' the pants--"

All right, fuck this. "**I'm not kidding!**" he practically screamed. "Stop deluding yourself, make like the sensible people and shut up!!"  
"OK, OK," muttered the sponge, backing against the wall. "Way to take a joke too seriously."

A pause while Squidward face-palmed.

Once he calmed down from his frustration a little, the gun-wielder tried again. "I don't think you quite understand what I'm trying to tell you here," he said in a strangely calm tone. "The fact is, all of you are going to die tonight. That means you, and the rest of your half-wit friends."  
(Here, he gestured to them with one of his hands – a move that would look a little more casual had it not been the hand holding the revolver.)  
"I'm going to kill every last one of you, just like I did all the others. Except maybe with a little more 'oh crap I can't escape I'm trapped in a hellhole'. A hellhole that your host himself helped to create." He chuckled quietly to himself. "The irony is delicious."

"Hey, no fair!" Patrick's voice rose from the silent crowd on the other side of the room. "How come you get to eat all the irony? I want some irony too!"  
The gun promptly switched its target. "Patrick, get back against the wall and shut the fuck up."  
"And if he doesn't?" This was from Mr Krabs.  
"You know damn well what will happen," growled the tako. "Brains hit the floor. Splatter, splatter."  
You could visibly see everyone pale at the thought. It made sense to shut up now.

"Y…you can't be serious."  
Ah. Apparently _somebody_ hadn't got the message.  
"This isn't right. You can't be a killer. That's…that's not Squidward." The poriferan was visibly quaking in his shoes.  
He had to roll his eyes at this. "I thought we just went over this," he said, re-aiming the gun at its previous bullseye. "I can be a killer and I **am** a killer. In fact, if you don't quit questioning me, I'll kill again."  
Then, "oh, wait, I was gonna do that anyway."  
"Y-you're nuts," stammered SpongeBob. "You're supposed to be a friendly guy, one that would never hold anything against any of us when it's convenient for you."  
"HA! Where have you **been **for the past few years, SpongeBrain?" This time, Squidward was the one laughing.  
"But you…I know you can't be the killer. What would you have to gain from brutal violence like this?" He was almost pleading now, his heart pounding like a piston…or a pistol.

For a brief moment, the cephalopod appeared to concede to this…slightly. "OK, so you're in denial. You can't see the obvious," he sighed, talking more to himself than to the others. "You want proof, huh?"  
"Y-yeah…no…maybe—"  
The sponge's confused answer was interrupted by a tentative 'meow' from the ceiling.  
"Gary? What are you doing up there?" the master asked his pet. "I thought I'd blocked up every entrance."  
"Meow meow." This translated to 'you missed a spot'.

Of course, Squidward wasn't aware of snail language, nor did he want to be. In the sudden arrival of the snail, he'd gotten just the proof everyone needed.  
"Perfect."

With that, Squidward shot Gary.

It only took one bullet to ricochet the shell off the copepod, and another one to cut him in half. It was quite disturbing when you looked at it. Not even the snail knew that he had so much blood in him.  
And SpongeBob couldn't do a thing. It was all over before he could blink. Already, one casualty had been made.

And it wouldn't be the last that night.

"Any more daft questions?"


	3. For Every Sin I'll Have To Pay

Wow, I'm doing well here. Three chapters in as many days.

This chapter does something that has definitely been addressed before, and that some of us have all wanted to do at some point.

* * *

Snail blood on the ceiling, shell and body on the floor. The chips and dip that should have been opened by now remained untouched, contaminated by the stench of death. Not the best way to begin a party.

However, when looking back, SpongeBob would see this moment as the high point of the night. Hard to believe at the time, seeing as his pet, his friend, his confidant had just died at the tentacles of a killer.  
But at least only one had actually died. Everyone else was still safe.  
For now.

Obviously, though, he didn't realize this at the time. So he just stood there, numb, stock still, heart stopped. If he didn't know any better, he'd say that his heart had died with his pet.  
_He…he shot Gary. He shot my Gare-Bear. Gary is…dead.  
_These thoughts circled through his head, a morbid iShell track on endless repeat. Endless repeat. Endless repeat.  
_He shot Gare-Bear.  
_Finally, a break in the track, as something else occurred to him:

_Who's next?_

Squidward wasn't really conscious of this. He was just concerned as to whether or not he'd been convincing this time. "You get it now, don't you?" he smirked, gun now at his feet. "I told you that I can kill. Believe me, I didn't want to have to shoot the snail, but –"  
_But?  
_"Oh wait. Of course I did."  
_Figures.  
_"Well, save your tears, Spongey. You don't have time to waste them over a puny dead burden."

Finally, Sponge found his voice. "G-Gary was not a puny burden," he choked out. "H…how could you have…"  
"Oh God, you're not gonna start blubbing over him, are you?" sighed the squid impatiently. "A dead pet's not worth crying over, even if you did love him. I mean, you supposedly 'love' me, but you don't start crying every time I get beaten to within an inch of my life.  
"Then," he added, "I suppose that's different. I'm alive. He's dead. And soon, so will you be."

Simple words, yet ones that chilled the sponge to the core of his non-existent endoskeleton.

At this point, for some reason, Pearl (remember her?) felt it obligatory to aim the spotlight back at her. "OK, random squid guy," she called out from the crowd, "you've shot the snail, can we start partying now? My make-up is starting to run."  
"_Pearly, shut up,_" muttered her father, giving her a non-too-subtle dig in the ribs.  
But it was too late. Squidward had already re-noticed her presence. "Oh, what have we here?" he sarcastically mused. "I see the little rich bitch has got something she wants to share with the class."

Gasp. "**What** did you just call me?" True to form, the teenager turned red in fury. "I am not a rich bitch! Am I a rich bitch, Daddy?"  
"No, no, of course ye're not, girl," 'Daddy' insisted, struggling to console her. "Squidward, tell me daughter she's not a rich bitch."

He had to hastily correct himself. "My my, of course, how stupid of me. In no way is she a regular old rich bitch."  
_Phew._

"She's a rich dyke bitch."

Another gasp. (And another clonk on the head, courtesy of Sandy – Patrick wanted to know what a dyke actually was.)

One would almost expect Pearl to burst into tears at this point. However, this time she wasn't doing it. What if a tear landed on her dress? Then no one would ever want to look at her. Instead, she settled for a piercing glare that she intended to look intimidating, but only succeeding in making her appear like a washed up callgirl.

"Sorry, but it's true," Squidward insisted. "Tell me again, how many girls have you secretly had in your bed the past few weeks? Four? Five? Or maybe eleven?" He was making all of this up, obviously, but coming up with another method to kill took time.  
"It-it's not true! You have no idea what you're saying, you…!"  
"Oh boo very hoo. You wanna run home to cry on your lesbian lover's shoulders? May be a bit more sympathetic to your plight than any of us can be."

That did it. To heck with his life, Mr Krabs had to intervene. "That be out of line, Mr Squidward," he scolded, scuttling out from the crowd. "Pearly, he doesn't mean it, he's just trying to--"  
"Expose the truth? Creep you out? Make like 'This Is Your Life'? You got that right, old man," his employee chuckled morbidly. (I hope you know what I mean by a chuckle being morbid.)  
"That isn't helping, lad!"

Well, no more fucking around – he knew now how she was gonna die. And it looked like not a moment too soon; the whale was gonna start bawling any minute.

But first, a quick character change. A sigh, a swing of the leg. "Aw geez, Pearl, I'm sorry," he said sheepishly. "You're right, I went a little too far there. You want I should make it up to you?"  
_Ooh yes._ Mr Fancyson, who scorned him in acting class, would have rejoiced at his performance now.  
"Uh…uh-huh," nodded Pearl, who had long since given up on her make-up.  
"Well, don't worry." A bogus smile, a nod, a clutch for the knife in his back pocket. "Soon, it's all gonna be over. You won't have to worry about that again."

If anything, her death was even quicker than Gary's. Wam, stab, slash, thank you ma'am. It was just like undoing a zip on a dress – except the dress was her skin.

And besides, in the end, it was better this way. As Squidward put it afterwards, "I'm sure at least three of you have wanted an end to the bitch for a long, long time."

Two down. Four to go.

* * *

Quick second disclaimer: The derigatory opinions that may have been expressed in this chapter (ie: over Pearl) do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the author. Ooh, get **my** fancy vocabulary. :P


	4. Avoid The Cliche

Sorry this chapter is late up – net went down last night. So much for daily updates. And oh God, what was I thinking last chapter? Good thing I've just fixed all the dialogue and definition errors. Mental note: 'fag hag' does **not **mean what I think it means. (facepalm)  
Fortunately, this chapter is better than the sporkable effort last night. This is the bit that I really looked forward to the most in the planning of this story. I gotta tell you, I had Too. Much. Fun with this.

* * *

Fortunately for his ear-drums, Squidward had the sense to plug them until SpongeBob stopped getting scared (and pretty grossed out) over the recently-deceased whale on the floor at high volumes.  
"Yeah, I know," he commiserated when the racket had died down. "All that blood, sweat and blubber butt; clashes with the fruit punch, doesn't it? Work on, your OCD, work."

Mr Krabs was none too happy either – his daughter had just died, after all. "Ye…ye monster," he growled at his disgruntled employee (the murderer one, not the host). "Ye bring my daughter back to life right now or you're fired."  
"Fine, sure, OK. Fire me. I've been waiting for you to do that for years." Indeed, Squidward now looked positively ecstatic – the highest mood he'd been in all night. "Besides, look on the bright side, Eugene. No daughter left means no more huge expenses, right?"  
The crustacean's face clouded over. "That's all ye care about, isn't it? How much money we have in our pocket."  
"That's a question you should ask yourself, Megatron. I mean, Krabs."

The callousness with which this recent death was being treated only served to scare everybody more. Even the headstrong Sandy, self-proclaimed bravest gal in the undersea, struggled to maintain her composure.

And it was time for her to deal with this threat in the only way she knew how. Good ol' fashioned Texan…whatever it is they called it.

"Now, who to kill next?" the 'threat' was musing whilst Sandy pushed through the crowd to confront him. "The glutton? The cheapskate? So many choices…so little time."  
"Now hang on a darn minute."  
_Well, what do you know? Protestin' Texan right on cue.  
_"If you're planning on killin' more critters tonight, Squidward," the squirrel shouted, roughly turning her target around, "you're gonna have to get through me first."

"Ah, the mammal creature. I was wondering when you would show up."  
"_Don't ya talk to me like that!_" Ooh, testy testy – clearly Sandy was getting angrier than her manner gave away. Which was no easy feat. "You can't just show up and crash the beginnin' of a fine tootin' party with your swaggering and your fancy talk about death."  
"I can," smirked the octopus, "because clearly I have."  
"And ya won't be again. You are gonna march right out of this pineapple and turn yourself in. If not, I'll do it for ya, and you'll be in more trouble than a hot-footed varmin caught pilfering Tootsie Rolls from a bargain store."

It was no good - SpongeBob had to make a comment here. "You make less sense every day, Sandy," he smiled.  
"And **you** make 'keep yer mouth shut as I'm _trying_ to save our tanhides'."

It took a little time for Squidward to escape her grasp. (_Damn, Texan tomboys have a tight grip, _he thought. _No wonder she's the iron lady._)

"Impressive speech there, Sandy." He clapped his tentacles together in mock applause. "Unfortunately, you've made a _couple _of oversights. First of all: I can't get out of the living room, even if I wanted to. Your precious boyfriend locked us all in, remember?"  
"…Uuuuh…"  
"And for another thing, I will most definitely be killing again. And as it so happens, I've decided that you're going to be my next victim. You must feel honored," he pointed out.  
She rolled her eyes in exasperation. "I think ya forgot the 'u' in 'honour', Mr Grammar Nazi."  
"Bite me, bitch."  
"Ooh, I would if I could."

"Well, enough stalling," he said, brushing some stray blood off of his hands. "Time for you to die."  
"And what ancient mystical treatment do ya have for us _this _time?" she growled. "A paperclip?"  
"No, your arch nemesis - a plot hole."

"Say whut?"

Another grin. He had her stumped there and he knew it. "You're the master of picking out things that are physically impossible underwater, _non_? It's why you came down here in the first place," he explained by way of exposition.  
"How did ya know that?" she asked, temporarily convinced that she had a stalker.  
"A very close insider from your clever little surface world. But you're not the only one who can pick up on these things, you know."  
"She isn't?" (SpongeBob asked this one.)  
"Sure. God knows I think about it all the time. For example, did you know that being under the sea puts huge amounts of pressure on an animal's body?"  
SpongeBob piped up again. "I knew that! Santa said so. He said it was why he had a big no—"  
"Yeah yeah, SpongeBob, w'all know the bit." Sandy shrugged this trivia aside. "What's yer point, Squidward?"

"Well, surely a goldfish bowl isn't enough to survive the obscene amounts of pressure in the living room." His red eyes went wide as he said this. "And as happened with all plotholes, when they are questioned, the physics realign themselves…and before you know it, the helmet goes chink.  
"Chink…crack…smash. Shatter, shatter, shatter, shatter, shatter, _drown_. Bam, one dead squirrel."

A pause…as nothing happened.

"Um…" his pupils darted around. "Shouldn't something be happening by now?"

"Hah! Gotcha there, Squidward!" Sandy grinned triumphantly. "This time, _you're _the one with the oversight. Remember my pressure suit? It protects both me and my helmet from the dangers of the outersea ocean. A little thing like pressure ain't gonna hurt it."

…

"Well…damn."

Everyone held their breath in anticipation. Could it be? Had Sandy just cheated a murderous death and gotten away with it?

"OK, Plan B." Squidward promptly reached for his gun again, and with just two bullets smashed the glass helmet, and her oxygen tank.  
Breathe out. They should have known it was too good to be true.

And as if to add insult to injury, Squidward wouldn't even allow her the courtesy of a pickle jar, preferring to kick the mammal down and stand on her neck to further speed up suffocation. The bubbles flew in a frenzy, slowly but surely decreasing in speed.

"There we go. Let's see how long you can hold your breath now…_Landy._"


	5. A Time To Work, A Time To Play

Decided to update today's chapter early today. Otherwise I won't get round to it at all.

The way I see it, some time around Chapter 6 (of 8), this will become the longest fanfiction I've ever written. I'm unsure as to whether or not this is a good thing. In fact, the real miracle is that I've stuck with it and updated it for this long this quickly.

* * *

For those of you not keeping score at home, the score of lives taken at half time was 3-nil, the away team clearly in the lead. With one own goal and two off the rebound, it would take either a miracle or a red card to prevent Squidward from practically running away with the ball.

Unsurprisingly, SpongeBob didn't see it that way. For no matter how much analogy the author uses, the tussle between life and death is not a football game.

My God, the questions tumbling about in his head right now. _Why are you killing everybody? Why was Sandy the next to go? Who will be next? If you must kill, why not all at once?  
And why did you call me Sandy's boyfriend?_

Eventually, he found the one that was the most urgent.  
"OK, I get it," he choked out. "You mean business, you want to kill me. I can see that. Now why don't you kill me? Why kill my friends and not me?"  
The question surprised Squidward. He'd expected SpongeBob to say something, but this…was odd. Unsettling. And slightly incoherent.  
"Are you serious? You want me to put you out of your misery?" His voice expressed no emotion as he said this – that was how surreal the question was.  
"N…no…yes…I…" The words came out almost as fast as his tears. "Why t-torture me l-like this? That's a-all I want to know. Surely i-if you want me to suffer y-you'll kill me now."

Squidward needed almost no time to conjure up an answer to this. "Are you kidding me?" he demanded. "You've answered your own question there. The whole reason I'm keeping you alive is **because **I want you to suffer."  
"…I'm confused."  
"Look at it like this. I hate you, and – you got that lodged in? I don't want you to think otherwise."  
(He almost laughed out loud at the faux politeness.)  
"I hate – no – abhor you, and I want you to suffer as much as possible in your final hours. Just killing you and watching you burn won't be enough, because then you'll be dead. The sweet sweet sanctuary of death. Where you feel no pain, no remorse, and no guilt, and you don't have to watch all of your friends dying after you and you don't have to have that feeling in your stomach that prevents you from moving and keeps you stock still and you can't get away and oh God they're coming after you and you can't escape it and don't kill me Daddy I'm too young for this get the fuck away from me you can't torture me like this and and and – **AAAARGH!**"

He stopped his run-on rant just in time. _Oopsie. Gave away more than you meant to there. Calm down, Squidward. Calm, good fear, deep breaths._

"…Let's forget that just happened," he said quietly, in fear of screaming again. "Anyway, you get what I'm saying. Doesn't it therefore make you hurt more that I **am **killing your pathetic little friends first?  
"Tell me, SpongeBob – does it hurt?"  
He could only nod. The sorrow clogged up his throat; he was realizing that Squidward had a point.  
"Good. Just how I want you to feel."

Mr Krabs hadn't said anything for some time at this point. He was too busy trying to blend into the background. He too wanted survival. He wanted to escape from this alive, so that his money—  
No, forget the money. Money wasn't important now. And Mr Krabs never thought he'd be thinking that.  
All he had to do was remain unnoticed. Don't make yourself obvious and the enemy don't catch you, as they might've said in the navy…  
At least he _hoped _they said that in the navy.

"Well, I can't waste all my time chatting about existentialism with the host," concluded Squidward, figuratively closing the book on the matter. "I really need to get on with giving my boss some well-needed payback. By the way," he added, turning to look him in the eyes, "pretty pathetic camouflage there. Red doesn't really go with orange. It's June, not November."

Well shit. They really should have said that in the navy.  
(Come to think of it, they really should have said "well shit" in the navy too.)

Regardless, Mr Krabs scuttled off of the wall and up to the calamari. "I almost expected this. Always thought that you'd turn against the cap'n one day, Mr Squidward. I just never thought I'd see it for meself."  
As soon as the words fell out, he knew that was a stupid thing to say.  
"No fucking shit, Shellock. What are you gonna say next, that you always thought Plankton would never 'steal me secret formuler'?" For the last part he put on what he meant to be a pirate accent, but for all Krabs knew could have been Scottish.  
"Ye always were a turncoat, weren't yeh, Squiddy?"  
"You mean you never knew?" he gasped in mock horror. "I practically gave the formula away to that little shit Plankton. I suppose that's another good thing that'll come of this – the bad guy wins there too."

_This is bad, _the crab couldn't help think. _That is, if I redefine bad to mean 'the worst fucking thing that could possibly happen._

"Look, M-Mr Squidward," he stuttered, "if it's money yeh want, I can give it to yeh…I got millions, a little extra in yeh paycheck won't-"  
"If it's money I want, I can always steal it from your safe like I usually do."  
Each new revelation was scaring SpongeBob more and more. Mr Krabs, however, was unaffected by this. Nothing Squidward said surprised him anymore.

"OK, if yeh don't want money, I-I got a boat ye can--"  
"Oh yeah, right, a Lambo-fucking-homosexual."

This was getting frustrating. "**What do ye want then?** What do I have to do to appease ye, lad?"  
"Calm down, Krabs," muttered the squid, rolling his eyes. "No need to yell at me, I'll get to killing you in a minute."  
_Ach! Stupid crab, stupid. _

"One more thing first." Slowly, Squidward started backing up, presumably trying and failing to reach for something. "About that Krabby Patty formula. Remember when I said that Plankton would win as well?"  
"Yeah, what about i-?"

Eugene met the business end of the massive flamethrower in Squidward's tentacles before he could say anymore

"I lied. I'm the only one who's gonna win this game. Coz no one's going to want to eat scorched crab meat."

* * *


	6. Delay My Pleasure

Patrick die now. Kudos to DeterminedX2 and TM for the awesomeness and Kool Aid.

* * *

Patrick may have been stupid, but he wasn't dumb. He knew hunger and thirst when he saw it. Or rather felt it. And as of now he was officially the most parched guy in the Pacific; in fact, he'd been feeling rather peckish since the whale gushed out all of that Kool Aid. (_Silly Squidward's cheating at pinata_, he remembered thinking at the time.)  
He also knew that bringing up his thirst now would be inappropriate. Why it was so he wasn't sure, though Sponge now looked fit to cry his eyes out. Probably over missing his opportunity for Kool Aid.  
But then, did he have much choice **but** to bring it up? nobody else seemed to want to offer him anything. They were all lying there, motionless; taking a nap, most likely. If he wanted a drink he'd have to go get it himself. Too much like hard work.

Offending SpongeBob seemed a risk worth taking right now. For he was that damn thirsty.

"Hey, uh, Squidward?" he hazarded, shooting his arm up like back in class.  
Squidward, who had been celebrating the notion of killing said starfish at the time, wasn't too pleased by the interruption. "Do you mind? I'm trying to be evil here."  
"Can you pass me a glass of that Kool Aid? I'm really thirsty."

Once Squidward had laughed for about five seconds, a pissed-off Pat gave it another try. "Why are you laughing at me? Is being thirsty funny? Is my suffering just one big joke to you?"  
"No, no it isn't," the murderer finally managed to get out. "It's your unbelievably loose grasp on the world around you."  
"Yeah, that too."

The smile dropped, laughter faded. "Wow, you're serious." A sad shake of the head. "Patrick, Patrick, Patrick. I am ashamed of you. Your life is in direct danger -- most of your friends have just died. Lifeless bodies choke up the air around you. And you're asking for a drink?"  
"...Yeah."  
"Are you actually TRYING to be that stupid?! Do you **want** to only make your death worse for yourself?"  
"Well, OK," said the unknowing offender without thinking. "But I'd rather have a glass of Kool-Aid."

Squid seethed. This wasn't going right. He was supposed to be the one doing the torturing of brain here, not the other way around. "Ugh. Patrick always was going to be the hardest one to kill," he muttered, unsure of who he was talking to. "Too stupid for a regular death, too uncannily smart for a subtle death. What an oxymoron."  
Patrick beamed at what he thought was a compliment. "Thanks. Takes practice."  
Ignoring that. "The fool won't even realise he's dead when I do kill him. In fact... I don't know whether it would be more humane to let the fool live." Wild, virgin thoughts for Squidward the killer.

SpongeBob felt a prod in his side from far away. "Hey SpongeBob," he heard, "What do you think? Should I let Patbutt over there live, unknowing of what his fate would have been? Should he be the only surviving victim of my onslaught?"

Squidward was clever in this respect, far cleverer than most made him out to be. He knew that SpongeBob would be unable to answer, thus giving him a free path to do as he wanted.  
He was right, too. SpongeBob was frozen. He wanted to speak, to say "No, don't hurt my best buddy", but he just couldn't - his throat was too dry, his whispers bitter. Bitter at the thought of having to say "yes, kill him".  
He knew that he was totally powerless in the situation. No matter what he said, Pat would die anyway, even when let live. The eventual mourning feelings that would overwhelm his best friend when it was all over would likely prove too much.  
His best friend. He was going to let his best friend die. Get murdered by what he now knew to be his beast of a ex-fri...neighbor. Murderers didn't even deserve to hold the title of 'friend' anymore, even in malice.

He had to let his best friend die now. It wasn't as if he had a choice.

"Well, SpongeBob? What do you say? Kill him, or spare him?"

The answer went unheard by his friend, but managed to surprise even the cold-hearted cephalopod.  
"You've started your slaughter, Squidward. Now finish it."

"Ahem."  
A cough from the other end of the room startled a newly-shocked Squid from his heaven-like stupor.  
"I seem to remember asking for Kool Aid a few minutes ago," demanded Patrick. "Now fork it over."  
Just like that, he seemed to get back into the swing of things. He had the opportunity - why waste it? "Of course, Patrick, I'm sorry. I'll go get you some right away." Grinning maniacally, Squid searched amongst his seemingly infinite pockets for his next weapon of choice; upon finding it, he ran over to Pat to give him what he was looking for.

"OK, Pat, this is a Kool-Aid making machine. Just peg these onto your hands, I'll flick the switch, and you can have enough Kool Aid to last you the rest of your life."  
"Wait a minute. This doesn't look like--"  
"You have no time to be picky, Patrick! Just plug them on!"  
"Yay! I get Kool Aid!"  
"Now just relax. It'll all be over soon."

The electrocution lasted for no time at all and yet for an eternity.

Shockingly (literally), Patrick didn't immediately die when 450 volts had passed. He just lay down, staring at himself. _Look at all the Kool Aid running out of me. Hee hee...I'm a pinata._

"Hey SpongeBob, check it out, I'm a pinata.  
"...SpongeBob? Can you hear me? SpongePal?  
"Look at all this Kool Aid. Wonder how I'll be able to drink it all.  
"... Whoa, I feel dizzy all of a sudden. SpongeBob, could you hold me?  
"...SpongeBob?  
"...I'm gonna take a nap now, SpongeBob. See you later."

Patrick never regained conciousness.

That was it. The last of the party guests had been snatched from mortality.

Now only two made up the population.

And this room suddenly wasn't big enough for the two of them.


	7. Suspend My Senses

Two characters left and blood in the halls. This is getting serious…if it wasn't already.  
OK, I lied in Chapter 4. THIS is the chapter I had the most fun writing. Fucking kick-ass.

* * *

According to the snail clock up on the wall, it had been twenty-nine minutes and forty seconds since Squidward had begun his parasitic conquest. Picking at all party goers, one at a time. Click, smash, zap. Dropping like flies.

Now only two remained. The adrenalin-soaked calamari, and the host of a ghost party.  
Squidward. SpongeBob.  
_And the kiss.  
_Go away, Bigger Fish to Fry, we have bigger problems now.

But first, a little wake-up call. "What, no mourning, SpongeBob?" Squidward kicked Sponge to get his attention. "I figured you'd be crying your eyes out by now." Indeed, the sponge hadn't shed a single tear since the death of Patrick Star.  
He _couldn't_ shed a tear. If he did, the reality would sink in and he'd be an incoherent wreck. Or maybe he wouldn't. He couldn't take that risk.

He looked up at his nemesis, a much-changed sponge. More hardened, more tolerant to reality. "I don't want to waste my energy," he muttered. "Tears can't be wasted on a psychopath like you."  
"Hm, s'pose you have a point," Squid conceded. "Why cry, when I'm going to kill you now anyway?"  
"Correction. You already **have **killed me."

Before Squidward could fail to get his head around it, he went on to explain the meaning: "I was alive at the beginning of this party. Bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, ready to do anything. Then you came and shot that old life dead." Old life. Only half an hour ago, and yet seemed so far, so distant.  
"I can't feel anything anymore, Squidward. I'm emotionally dead. You took my innocence, my naivity, and raped it. Gunned it out, electrocuted it…Whenever one of my friends died, a little bit of me went with them.  
"You killed my soul, remember, Squidward?"  
Only now did SpongeBob show a sign of sorrow, remorse, regret.  
"You killed him right in front of me."

A stirring speech, but one that would not distract Squidward for long. "That's right, SpongeBob. And now your body has to go with it."  
"Do what you want." A sigh emerged from the lifeless sack formerly known as life. "I don't really care anymore."  
"I was intending to do that anyway; I'm not dumb." Regardless, he turned away, starting to ponder on the enigma what would be the death of his neighbor.  
"How to make this death unique?" he pondered, walking around the room. "I've already made you suffer so much; would a little more make a difference? Maybe a chainsaw…no, too sadistic. Poison, maybe…_takes too long, I could never get out in time…_"

This mental argument went on for a little longer, each theory being counteracted by either an oversight or inconvenience.  
Ironically, this would be the one argument which Squidward didn't win with himself. In fact, no one won.  
For if he had been paying attention, he would have seen SpongeBob creeping silently to one of Squidward's possessions…holding it up…aiming…and…

Suddenly, a bang.  
An abrupt stop.  
A pain in his leg.

1 + 1 + 1 = 3.

"Bang?"  
An about turn.  
"Bang?!"  
A stare at his perpetrator.  
"You just fucking shot me!!"

"Actually," said SpongeBob, swinging the pistol, "I aimed for the part of your leg with the most major arteries, so technically I 'just fucking **killed** you'. But you were close enough."

Owwwww. Not a good idea to bring it up when your leg was gushing geysers.

"I…I can't believe it." This time, Squidward was the numb one. "After all this time – ow – all this torture, all this pain, you actually snapped – ow – and shot me."  
"I told you, Squidward. I can't feel anything anymore. You hardened me."  
"I know, but…" Trip, fall down, still clutching leg. "I just never thought you'd have the… the…"

Words failed him. Completely, utterly.  
For the first time since he walked into the room, he had no snappy comebacks.  
He was too 'dying' for snappy comebacks.

Vision blurred, he stared around the room. Stared at his victims, his experiments of the blade. "I…I actually made you snap, SpongeBob," he realized. "This…this is fucking revolutionary. In the…ow…event you survive…you're now unstoppable."  
"Yup."  
"And to think, all it took was the killing of your friends..."

_The killing of your friends…_

_The killing of…_

"The killing…"

_Killing…_

"Of…"

SpongeBob was the one surprised now. He watched as tears fell from the murderer.

"S…SpongeBob, wh…_what have I done_?"  
Remorse? From him? Now?  
A deathbed confession?

"What have I been doing? I never asked for this…I never wanted this. I…_sob…_killed everybody…" Oooooow. Leg pain. Fetal position.

His heart broke.  
You can't help but feel for a softened criminal, one who felt guilt for his actions.

Despite all he'd been through, SpongeBob couldn't resist the urge to run over and give Squidward a hug.

"Squidward…"  
"Sp…onge, I…I'm so sorry…"  
"I know you are," he sighed, rubbing his back. "Me too. I didn't shoot you too hard, did I?"  
"I…I don't…"  
"Do you want me to phone the--"  
"N-no… I don't think I'll make it…"

SpongeBob started crying too now. Once the tears started he didn't stop. A victim and his murderer silently sobbing together.

A tender moment, emerging like a flower from a crime scene.

Then – a stir.

"_Sponge…Bob?_"  
"Y…yes?" he choked.  
"_Come closer… I wanna…say something…_"  
"OK." A shuffle. "I'm here, Squidward."

Then SpongeBob choked for real, Squidward stepping on the flower.  
"I can't believe you fell for that."

_Of course, _thought SpongeBob. _Not above sheer manipulation. And I fell for it like the pansy I am.  
_"W-well,"he spluttered, throat being crushed by Squidward's claws, "I suppose that'll teach me to avoid crocodile tears."  
"Teach you? You've got nothing left to learn. You're gonna die! We both are. But a life for a life."  
"A l-life for a life."

In fact, 7 lives for a life. Squidward scooped up a little blood from everybody, then shoved it down his victim's throat.  
"Hah! T-taste that, SpongeBob?" he cried, voice raspy, vision spinning. "Choking to death on the blood of your friends."  
"C-choking…didn't you already do that?" SpongeBob managed to crack a smile, despite his circumstances.  
Crap, Squidward hadn't thought of that. "Shut up."  
Bahaha. Even now, a laugh. "So you're not only a hack, you're not even an **original **hack!"  
"**Shut the fuck up!!**" A tighter squeeze, a message to say 'cross me and you're dead for real'.

Gasp, rasp.  
It was a tense situation. No one knew who would break first. Squid, or Sponge.  
Professional, or freshman killer.

Slowly, though, the grip loosened.  
Both visions blurred largely.  
Hearts pounding in ears.

"I…" Cough, hack from Squidward. "I must admit, though… I never thought you had it in you, SpongeBob…"  
Cough.

"To be a stone cold…stone cold…"  
"Y…yeah…I…"

Blackout. Blackout.

Both stumbling around in the nether region between life and death.

Only one would make it back to this world.


	8. It's Not My Time To Go

And so, the story ends in a single emo tear of doom, a week after it began. Many say "thank god", some say "oh no". For the most part I fall on the side of "oh no".  
I didn't think I'd have the strength to keep this up and actually complete this hack-fest. Not quite 10,000 words, but close enough. Thanks for motivating me with your reviews, guys. You have the powoh.

* * *

Everything hurt.  
Understatement. Everything _throbbed _with pain. Arms, legs, head – even his toes.  
Was this supposed to be death?

Was he in hell? Did his one final act of cruelty serve as an automatic escalator to forks poking into his flesh?  
Or in heaven? Was the pain, in fact, King Neptune's way of saying "wake up and I'll clean your wounds"?  
Worse yet, was he in the peripheral never-region? Neither good, nor bad, not deserving of a place anywhere but painful blackness?

An eye tentatively opened, unsure of what to see.  
And instantly shut again, blinded by the whiteness.

Whiteness. White is pure. White is, in death terms, good.  
That was it, then. He was in heaven after all. He could relax. Float on a cloud. Whatever it is they do.

"Mr SquarePants?"  
An ethereal voice, calling from far away. King Neptune? Is that you?

"Mr SquarePants, wake up."

The same eye opened again, this time taking time to get used to the light. The other quickly joined it, looking around the area, seeing stuff he hadn't seen the first time.

Shades of gray.  
A warm blanket.  
A life support machine.

Not in Heaven after all. Pity.

"Mr SquarePants?"  
SpongeBob would have turned to the person saying this, had he had the energy to move. As it was, he could only manage a quiet "where am I?"  
"No, don't talk. You've suffered a lot of damage to your voice box. Actually," said what he now knew was the fish doctor, "I'm amazed you're still alive."

He could see better now; his location more obvious. He'd been here before –the recovery ward of Bikini Bottom Hospital. However, some things still eclipsed his vision, like the state of his body and neck, or the X-Rays up on the wall.  
Somehow, this was a good thing. He couldn't bear to look at himself. It would only serve as a harsh reminder of…however many hours ago it was now.

"W-what t…"  
"You were unconscious for about five hours when we found you."  
Five hours…it took five hours for him to be rescued?  
"I'm sorry, but do you know how hard it is to save somebody when you have no idea that they're dying?" snapped the doctor, as if reading his patient's mind. "It's a miracle that I happened to be looking for a case at the time."

Snatched from the jaws of death by a willing doctor. No doubt the hospital would get a medal for this.

Still, one question burnt in SpongeBob's head. A pressing query that could possibly salvage his present situation.  
"Wh-what about—" he started croaking.  
But the doctor was still having none of it; "I said don't talk! Do you want to damage your voice box more than it is already?"  
A visible flinch from the bed-ridden sponge was enough to make him soften, however. "Sorry about that. It's eight in the morning. I haven't had any coffee yet. Damn hygiene regulations."

"B-but wh…what about…S-Squidward?" Finally, a coherent sentence choked out. "Wh-where is he?"  
"I thought I just told you not to do that, kid," the doctor scolded.  
"(cough) But…"  
"Besides, Mr Tentacles is not my responsibility. Why would you want to know where he is anyway? According to DNA sampling, he very nearly killed you."

"But (hack) did I…very nearly k-kill him? P-please…where is he?"

A pause as his plea hung over the room.

Then, a sigh. "I didn't want to have to be the one to tell you this," muttered the good doctor. "I mean, you've suffered so mu--"  
"I know I ha-have. But I-it's not gonna get any worse. I…I can take it."

"By the time I found you, Mr Tentacles was already dead. I'm sorry."

* * *

Two weeks later, a broken poriferan emerged from the hospital. Well, not broken as such; his throat wounds had healed somewhat, and no bones had been smashed in what was fast becoming known as the House Party Massacre.  
But what little was left of his soul was ruined beyond repair.

His closest friends. The people he knew and trusted the most. His pet, his boss, his best friend forever. All dead, all gone, leaving the blood on his hands, in his throat.

All he had to do was to stop the party, and he hadn't even done that.  
Now lives were hanging over his head. Never to depart.

He spent the next few days visiting all the places his friends had held dear. Sandy's treedome, bless her, inventions gathering dust. The rusty anchor that used to be the Krabs residence, empty and foreboding. Patrick's rock, Squidward's Island Head, even the Krusty Krab.

That last one was a mistake. People expected him to resume his duties, make more Krabby Patties despite all he had lost, take over and assume position as Inheritor of Restaurant. But he had to let everyone down this time. The pain would have been too much, and besides, Krabby Patties were obsolete now. Just as Squidward had predicted, without the cannibalistic aspect the formula didn't work.

So he let everyone down. Something that he'd grown accustomed to.

The only place he made definitely sure to avoid was his own home. He couldn't go back to the scene of the crime.  
It would only make him hurt more.  
Just hurt, though. Not cry. He had no tears left.

* * *

Poppy Puff didn't really question it when SpongeBob asked her if he could sit in a boat for a while. She really should have done; after all, SpongeBob and boats equated instant disaster, but he had gone through so much that she let him without a second thought.

And so he sat in the boat, engine running, but not going anywhere. Roof up, all windows and doors shut bar a gap in the window closest to the steering wheel.

Through this window, a hosepipe tentatively poked its head.  
A hosepipe connected to the exhaust.

And just because he could, not only did said exhaust carry the carbon monoxide that would aid SpongeBob in his unprecedented suicide; certain 'ingredients' scooped up from the cemetery were mixed in as well.

SpongeBob died breathing in the blood of his friends.  
In a strange way, Squidward, even from beyond the grave, had gotten his wish.

Today, if you visit Bikini Bottom Cemetery (not that you do, the town having been rendered obsolete after his death), you can see two tombstones side by side, just off the entrance.

The first simply says "Squidward Tentacles, RIP". A simple message for a mixed-up man.

The second is larger, more poetic.

"**Here Rests  
****SpongeBob SquarePants**

**The Body to His Left  
****Killed Him  
****Long Before He Killed Himself.**"

_~Fin~ _


End file.
